The Distant Summer
The phone rang again, a shrill, mechanical shriek that cut through the humid silence of the kitchen, and Elias did not move from the window where he was watching the tide pull back over the shingle, leaving the beach a grey, heaving mattress of wrack and kelp. He had told himself, with the quiet, stubborn certainty of a man who has spent forty years labeling things in glass jars, that he was...
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